


The fruit of your hands, the breath of your being

by Kleenexwoman



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Domestic, Judaism, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-08 03:20:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kleenexwoman/pseuds/Kleenexwoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik and Charles move into the suburbs of Long Island, join a Humanistic Jewish temple, and basically have a really nice, comfortable, happy life. Then Erik gets pregnant. </p><p>This story is told in free verse and has a lot to do with the author's own ambivalence towards her experience as a cultural Jew in the suburbs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Jewish-American Dream

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally meant to be a fluffy mpreg fic whereupon I would outdo the gross food cravings and hormonal behavior that my friend Wolfsheart makes her male characters go through when they're pregnant, or when a telepath makes them think they're pregnant because she's pissed off at them. So this is pretty much her fault! 
> 
> It became so much more than that because I can't just do anything nice and simple.

here you are holding hands with your rich goy boy toy  
in the front row of the humanist temple in long island  
squeezing his hand and smiling every time the rabbi says "love."  
the rabbi says "love" a lot. you love the rabbi  
his rainbow tallis and his starry-night kippah  
his soft brooklyn lisp and his smile  
you love the way the temple library  
has marx next door to maimonides, sagan next to singer  
the way everyone acknowledges  
there might not be a god  
there might not be a point  
but we'll make one anyway 

forget god. god's not important  
if he's such a big shot, where was he  
in that bullet in your mother's brain  
in the oven that consumed your family  
in the trains that chugged to the ovens  
the rabbi asks this, and you move your lips,  
fill in the blanks. everyone has a story.  
it's okay to be angry, the rabbi says,  
it's okay to hate god. if he exists,  
he's a mamzer, big giant shmuck up in the sky.  
it's the only rational response  
to this world. to make peace  
with the fact that there will never be peace 

and you have peace. a piece  
of land, no bigger than its crabgrass.  
your boyfriend traded his mock-ancestral castle  
for a split-level in long island with you  
the same way you traded the dream of israel,  
jews blooming in the desert,  
for the jews already thriving in the lawns of long island.  
the bored teens, the big-haired housewives,  
the commuters and the divorcees,  
the way the sun drifts on a saturday afternoon.  
they've never struggled. neither of you  
ever want to have to struggle again. 

when you're angry, he calms you.  
it's better than valium  
better than vodka  
almost better than sex  
(but not quite),  
because he doesn't need that anger  
and you don't need that anger  
for anything, anymore 

because the world is green and sunny on a shabbos afternoon  
while you sit inside and mow the lawn with your mind  
and the rabbi says that god has not led you here,  
there is no story, there is no pattern,  
the suburbs are not the promised land  
beer and fondue has never been milk and honey  
don't thank god, the rabbi says,  
thank yourselves. judaism lies not in god,  
not in the light of the sky or the torah,  
but in your stories, your genes.  
but your stories are all about monsters  
and maybe your genes make you a monster  
and the rabbi says, no, no men are monsters,  
even hitler was a man  
even shaw was a man  
and even if you aren't human,  
erik, you're still a jew. 

a modern jew, a modern man,  
without hatred, without fear,  
sitting in the front row at the service at the humanistic temple in long island  
with a rich goy boy toy, without a god,  
with all the love you'll ever need again.


	2. "i don't revive the dead" (and his flesh was turned to fire)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter goes out to my friend Charlie, who suggested the idea of Erik working on metal sculptures to express himself, a long time ago. Thanks, bro.

there's so much trash in long island   
so much trash in manhattan,   
in the dumpsters, the streets, the barges that haul nothing but trash.   
so much thrown away. you feel the tin cans,   
the aluminum foil, the lightbulbs and bottlecaps,   
the zippers and the buttons dangling from decaying denim,   
(the eyeglasses, the gold fillings, the wedding rings)  
and you call them. come to me,   
i'll love you, i'll shape you,   
turn you and twist you,   
into so much more than what you are,   
into what you could be if you had the chance. 

you turn garbage into holy things.   
menorahs. mezzuzahs. candlesticks. long-handled yads.   
you loop garbage into delicate chains,   
into silver chais, golden-brass magen davids.   
all this beauty from trash.   
all this holiness from trash.   
it keeps you occupied,   
keeps your hands busy,   
keeps your anger from flaring,   
keeps your pain from growing,   
keeps your sadness from flowing,   
keeps your grief away.   
everything you feel,   
everything you remember,   
woven from trash and twisted to glory. 

when the time comes, you'll twist it all again,   
into those gates. a blunt statement--   
the wealth of the nazis built on jewish pain.   
but it needs to be blunt. to hurt.   
those gates that will twist again under your hands,   
twist into the shape of your pain. 

those letters that say, work makes you free   
and it does. this work frees your mind,   
if not your soul. frees your hands.   
hand and mind, aren't they the same?   
metal and body, aren't they the same?   
this is where charles won't understand.   
his body is a shell for his mind.   
a christian body, a shell for the soul--   
a soul that is undying, unique,   
and a body that means nothing. 

but you know that's a lie,   
with or without god.   
the dead wait, asleep, unknowing,   
until the messiah comes,   
and then their bodies are forever.   
if there are bodies, that is--   
if they aren't burned. if they aren't ash.   
if they aren't scattered to the winds,   
where even the messiah can't gather them back,   
can't reverse the fires of the camps.   
can't reverse time and destruction,   
can't reverse erasure. 

the soul is not forever.   
the body is not forever.   
even love is not forever.   
even genes are not forever.   
the only permanence is metal--  
and it's yours.


	3. the laugh was bitter in my mouth but sweet on my lips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where we get to the weird cravings, yes.

miracles escalate. sarai, too old,  
laughed when the angel told her  
she'd give birth to a nation.  
there is no radiant angel to tell you,  
only a doctor, puzzled, saying,  
"let's run some more tests."  
but there will be no tests ever again,  
no probing, no questioning,  
no wondering, no torturing.  
it might not be god,  
but it's still a miracle,  
born in the twisting of a gene,  
born in the splitting of an atom. 

you thought you were your father,  
hard as silver,  
intricate as brass,  
alive with his hands.  
your line would die with you,  
not with a bang but with a whimper,  
not with fire but with the warmth of a summer's day,  
not with a shot from a gun but identical orgasms--  
but you can't escape life,  
can't escape destiny,  
can't escape the will to live of the jew,  
the will to live of the mutant,  
of the new. 

your body  
won't let you give up.  
you came through fire for this.  
you came through torture for this.  
you came through thousands of years  
of hiding (of dormancy),  
of persecution (of dominant genes),  
of slavery (of nonexistence),  
it was written in you, handed down,  
copied, transcribed, passed around,  
not a jot or protein sequence changed,  
waiting. mutant genes hidden in human spaces,  
black letters on white fire,  
white letters on black fire.  
and at last the flesh can read the word. 

you are more your mother,  
soft as wax,  
intricate as tangled vines,  
alive and giving life.  
you find yourself cooking her dishes,  
rendering onions in schmaltz,  
spreading it on black bread,  
offering the love of your life,  
the fire of your loins,  
a bite. he wrinkles his nose,  
says no thanks, he'll just join you  
in your mind, won't have to pad himself out  
with the fat, with the tang, with the bread.  
and you eat it all,  
your memories disappearing from his mind,  
your memories disappearing down your throat,  
so your child can eat them  
and have them in her forever. 

he can read your mind,  
but he can't read your body,  
not anymore. and it's your body that's you now,  
lovingly betraying you,  
your cravings filling every cell,  
your memories filling every breath.  
it knows more than you about children,  
more than you about life,  
more than you about history,  
and you obey it. 

you send charles out  
for kosher shrimp,  
leavened matzah,  
dry mogen david,  
and if he won't,  
your words and your thoughts won't match,  
and you know it.  
"that's fine. i'll do without" becomes  
 _you don't love me enough to go out  
you don't love me enough to feed me  
you don't love me enough to look in one more store  
you don't love me enough to drive to brooklyn  
you don't love our child enough, charles,  
i'm sacrificing, i'm changing,  
i came through fire and death and flame,  
and you won't go through one damn grocery aisle  
if not for the man you love,  
for the child who will love you?_  


you never eat the fake shrimp,  
the crackers,  
the wine.  
they sit, ashamed,  
making room, making time,  
so your body can have  
what it craves:  
metal. iron filings,  
crumpled tinfoil,  
the blood tang of copper  
the sweetness of pewter  
silver chains down your throat like noodles  
gold chewed like saltwater taffy  
so your body will harden,  
give your child a fortress,  
give your child strength,  
pass on your power  
always defend. always stay strong.  
always twist, always bend,  
so you don't break.


End file.
